


Shelter

by TheDistantDusk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mild Smut, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-29 21:17:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18786379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDistantDusk/pseuds/TheDistantDusk
Summary: Ginny shrugs, unperturbed. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll still tell everyone at Hogwarts you’re a tosser. And that you’ve chucked me for my brother. And that you’re sexually attracted to weasels.”





	Shelter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hills](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hills/gifts).



> This is a very belated birthday gift for my beloved Hills! I hope I delivered on a Shell Cottage reunion/”they didn’t break up” AU. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who helped me make this less of a pile of garbage. You know who you are. ;)

Harry supposes he should have known better than to believe that Ginny would accept the terms of his breakup.

It takes until his arrival at the Burrow for him to realize he’s thicker than he thought.

Within ten minutes of stepping off the motorbike, Ginny’s rushing into his arms and running her hands through his hair as she kisses him against the kitchen table, her whole body poised on her tiptoes.

And with the immediacy of a thunderclap, her lips part the clouds that have filled Harry’s head since May; every press of her hips is another glowing pillar of sunshine spanning the space between heaven and earth. Harry’s _warm warm warm_ as she pulls him from the shadows, as she whimpers and moans against him, as she allows him to bask in her light.

Maybe it’s because Harry’s nearly died tonight. Maybe it’s because Moody _has_ died. Maybe it’s because this whole experience has been so preposterous and charged and filled with darkness.

But for the first time, he doesn’t even try to stop her. For the first time, he ignores the logical parts of his brain and focuses on feeling _warm warm warm_ , instead. Harry groans as Ginny’s tongue slides between his lips, her mouth slanting and curling with expert pressure, her glow chasing away the dusk.

Fuck, she’s good at this — at _all_ of this.

Harry finally pulls back and rests his forehead on her crown of bright red hair, his palms wrapped around her waist.  

He’s spent every day since Dumbledore’s funeral convincing himself that he’s living in false memories, that he’s blown their relationship out of proportion; he’d even settled on the theory that reminiscing about Ginny is the same as an old man reflecting on times gone past. Surely things with her couldn’t have been _that_ good. Surely Harry must have imagined the memories of her mouth and her smile and her lithe little fingers.

Harry’s chest rises and falls as he pulls back from her hair, his hands sliding up to cradle her cheeks. He gazes down at her as she peers up at him, and just like every other time, his world narrows, his breath hitching in his throat. The second their eyes meet, Harry accepts — with a clarity akin to being socked in the stomach — that he’s been mistaken.

He knows, now, that he’s been lying to himself to cope.

Because just as he’d suspected, Ginny greets him with a heady, faraway look, her lips swollen, her cheeks rosy and pink. He swallows, tracing a finger down the side of her face. She’s so beautiful when they snog; he’s ashamed he’s forgotten.

Harry shakes his head and berates himself for thinking he could live (or die) without _this_. Without _her_.

Ginny doesn’t let him sit with that for long.

“So we’re back together,” she blurts, her hand over his heart.

There’s a pause, and one of Harry’s hands wraps about the end of her ponytail. He’s never been good at _not_ playing with her hair.

“Do I… get any say in this?” he asks idly, his eyes fixed on the red tendrils gliding across his knuckles. They both know he doesn’t mean it; their togetherness had been a foregone conclusion the moment she’d kissed him. 

Ginny shrugs, unperturbed. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll still tell everyone at Hogwarts you’re a tosser. And that you’ve chucked me for my brother. And that you’re sexually attracted to weasels.”

Harry snorts, but quickly recovers.

“Well,” he replies fairly, still staring at her hair, “each of those has a grain of truth. I’ll ‘spose let everyone at Hogwarts decide the rest."

“Mmm,” Ginny agrees, rising to her tiptoes again, and with that, Harry knows any hope of further dissuasion has vanished like a pile of snow in the summer. He bends down to close the space between them — not caring at all if she notices the ghost of a smile darting across his face.  

Because he’s  _not_  going to fuck this up twice.

* * *

They don’t meet again until the day of Bill and Fleur’s wedding, but he’s not surprised when Ginny pulls him into her bedroom. She mutters something about a present, makes a vague reference to his birthday, and then she’s kissing him — and just as suddenly, Harry’s not _warm warm warm_ … he’s _hot_.

This time, though, Ginny’s lips carry a sense of urgency, like she’s chasing the last day of summer before the damp of autumn settles in. Harry moans as her lips nibble and descend below his jawline, sucking on that pressure point she’d found during sunlit days of someone else’s life.

Everything is just as brilliant and amazing and arousing as before, but this time, there’s no room for embarrassment or miscommunication; when she grinds her shorts against his erection (with a surprising force for someone so tiny), it’s clear what she wants.

For the first time, Harry doesn’t pretend it’s not him.

They’ve only really done one big thing together — and it had only happened once. Harry’s certain he won’t be able to replicate it, to recapture what he’d (somehow) made her do… but all at once, Ginny’s straddling him on her mattress and shucking off both of their trousers, and he realizes he needn’t have worried.

Because Ginny’s always been the sort who takes matters into her own hands.

She bends down and kisses him again, her bra-clad breasts (when had she taken her shirt off?!) pressing against his skin, and Harry thinks he’d be content, really, to remain wrapped in the curtain of her long, red, sweet-smelling hair as it cascades around both of their faces.

He has a delirious thought that it’s like they’re enclosed in a single pillar of sunshine as the rain thunders around them, but then Ginny rocks her damp knickers against his pitched boxers, and he stops thinking about anything at all. With shaking hands, Harry just skates one of his hands to the small of her back… _and watches her_.

He’s not disappointed. Not that he thinks he’ll ever be, not when it comes to her.

Ginny’s head is tipped back, her mouth half-open, a blush spreading up her chest as her breasts sway back and forth, even from the confines of white lace. She’s just as glorious and amazing and perfect as she’d been in every randy dream he’s had over the past year. Suddenly, she gets even redder, and somewhere in the recesses of Harry’s lust-addled mind, it dawns on him that this is exactly what she’d done the first time, the split second before she’d—

_“Harry.”_

She chokes out his name, her eyes fluttering shut, her whole body hovering on the brink. _Harry_ is a whimper, a pledge, a muttered oath, and a low moan vibrates through her core as she presses herself against his hardness. And with that, he can feel her — he doesn’t know why he’d never thought about it before, but of course he’d be able to feel her — and she clenches and squeezes as she comes, more beautiful and perfect than she’s ever been.

That’s the last bloody straw before he loses it, too.

He gasps a strangled variant of her name and grips her arse with his palms, her core flush with his own. Harry groans and throws his head back as she rocks him through his release… and all the while, she encourages him, as only Ginny can. Her words flow in lilting syllables of affection, and for a reason he’d rather not analyze, this only heightens the strength of his release.

It’s not until the world returns to focus several minutes later that Harry considers the possibility of mess. The last time, they’d been clothed… and he’s certain — beyond certain — that this time has been more explosive.

Harry blinks through the post-orgasm haze to mutter an apology, but Ginny places a finger on his lips.

“Don’t you dare apologize,” she whispers, her skin blotchy. “Don’t you _ever_ apologize, Harry Potter, for what I wanted, too.”

He can only give her a besotted smile as he stares into her luminescence, hoping that says enough.

* * *

Harry hadn’t expected to leave so soon, but he reckons it’s for the best. A sense of readiness had hung in the air of her bedroom as they’d worn matching grins of contentment to clean themselves up. That feeling is another one of those things he can’t pinpoint: _Why_ he knows Ginny’s ready… for anything.

Why he knows they’re perfectly in sync.

Why they can communicate entire ideas with their eyes.

As such, he supposes it’s good that things never went _that_ far; Harry’s not sure he’d be able to complete his mission if Horcruxes had to contend with memories of Ginny rocking above him — or with the (thus-far imagined) vision of the dewy red curls at the apex of her thighs.

No… they’re both better off. At least that’s what Harry tells himself.

In retrospect, he’ll realize that memories have kept him alive through the winter. The reminder of what he’d once shared with Ginny, the promise of their eventual reunion (even if only a fantasy), had thrummed in his chest, flooding his veins with hope and light.

Because with few exceptions, the months of August through March are dreadful — so much worse than Harry had expected. Everything falls to complete shit very, very fast. Sharing a tent with Ron and Hermione is like living on a malfunctioning lift; when he wakes each morning, Harry feels as if the doors are _dinging_ open to a new floor of emotional upheaval and confusion (Will he, Ron, and Hermione arrive at Depression today? Paranoia, perhaps?).

It’s not until Ron leaves that he realizes that Ginny’s presence in his mind has been a gift, even if he’s only imagined it. Harry loves Hermione like a sister, but _Merlin_ , she’s the furthest thing from what he needs right now. She’s somehow both emotional and withdrawn, and Harry has neither the skill nor the patience to interpret what her silences mean.

It’s not until Ron comes back that Harry realizes his best mate also functions as a Hermione translator.

Ron understands Hermione’s pauses and glares with effortless grace, he gives her the space she needs, he bridges the gaps in human connection that have stretched like frigid cobwebs in his absence. After some time, Harry senses a glowing thaw from beneath the frozen surface of their friendship; he knows it’s only a matter of time until the ice breaks completely.  

Ron’s not Ginny — and Harry knows that better than anyone — but a sense of lightness has nonetheless returned, right along with him. And that’s why seeing Ron _also_ makes Harry miss Ginny even more.

He goes to bed every night hoping he’ll get a final chance to bask in her sunshine, to revel in her happiness, to kiss her laughing mouth as her red hair dances around them.

Harry can only hope he’s done enough good to tip the scales in his favor.

* * *

Harry’s wish comes true, but not in the way he’d planned.

Malfoy Manor is one tumultuous disaster that becomes another, a striking manifestation of mortality that unfolds in front of his eyes. A mirror (of all things) had bridged the ethereal gap between life and death — leaving Harry’s mission dangling in the balance.

Harry charges into Shell Cottage when it’s all done, thankful he’s been given the space to mourn. He suspects Ron’s had something to do with the chain of communication, but he can’t be arsed to care — not when his face is a mess of grief and grime, not when his chest is so heavy and full he can scarcely breathe, let alone _see_.

So when he stumbles into Bill’s poorly lit kitchen, he’s certain he’s imagining her… because there’s no bloody way Ginny’s sitting at the table, as calmly as you please. Surely she’s a figment of his imagination, a siren calling him to the rocks.

Harry spends fifteen seconds blinking at her petite frame and her halo of red hair and ivory skin before his gut confirms it’s her — it’s really, _really_ her. And even then, he only realizes it because seeing her fills him with peace. The world is collapsing and thundering around him, the storm swirling close and shaking the rafters, but when Ginny’s there, he’s _calm_.

Harry takes two uneven steps forward, his hands finding purchase on the back of a chair.

“ _Ginny_.”

Her name is a question and a plea; as she rises to her feet, her red hair swaying around her face, he knows she understands both.

But Ginny doesn’t want to explain... and in truth, he doesn’t really care.

“Out on good behavior,” she murmurs when the warmth from her body is finally close enough for him to feel. Being closer makes him calmer, _so_ much calmer, and Harry gives a hysterical half-laugh as she stands on her tiptoes to thread her fingers through his hair.

He closes his eyes and swallows as Ginny’s warmth surrounds him again, her little body pressed to his. Even though he’s just buried Dobby and nearly died and faced Death Eaters mere hours ago, he can’t help but feel better than he has since August.

Ginny draws deep, steady breaths that pull him deeper from the darkness, and just as he’s _nearly_ there, just as he’s on the brink of everything being better, she takes his left hand and cups it between both of hers. And despite himself, Harry winces; his skin is calloused and cracked, but she has no way of knowing. He can’t blame her, not when she wanted to help.

“Shovel,” he manages thickly, averting his eyes. “When we—” Harry gives a fruitless gesture outside as his face crumples, his stomach sinking in disappointment as the churning regret crests over him again. _Dobby’s dead. Dobby’s dead. Dobby’s dead._

Then — before Harry can help it, before he’s able to talk himself out of it — his body commits the ultimate act of betrayal: He starts _crying_.

Like a baby.

The last thing Harry sees is Ginny’s brow furrowing as Bill’s kitchen swims before his eyes. And then his world suddenly feels so narrow and his head seems so full and his chest is fit to burst, and Harry lets out a strangled sob as he tosses his glasses on the table. He shoves his palms against his eyes as hard as he can, _mortified_ he’s been so overcome, _terrified_ he’ll have to explain, torn between running out the door as fast as he can and just collapsing on the ground and—

_“No.”_

The world stops spinning. The clouds fade.

Ginny’s voice is soft, but her hands are softer. She pries his palms from his eyes, and although Harry hasn’t asked, although he hasn’t told her what he needs, although he hasn’t provided a single explanation, she _understands_. She cups his calloused hands as soothing whispers tumble from her lips, pausing in between his wracking sobs for gentle kisses to his knuckles. All the while, her brown eyes are seeking and curative, passionate and resolute, and Harry inexplicably feels like her gaze has transported him to the eye of the storm.

There’s a raging tempest roaring around them, rushing in his ears like a heaving downpour on a tin roof… but with every sob, more of his darkness collapses, more of the lingering pain and hopelessness of winter ebbs away, until finally, _finally_ , it passes over them.

When Harry’s last tear finally slips down his cheek, he knows he can start again. He’s left soggy and soaked and exhausted, but nonetheless better for having weathered the storm — _with her_.

He gives her a delirious, relieved, besotted grin, and after several moments of just staring at her — at the girl who’s _here_ for him, at the girl who understands him, at the girl who’s rebuilt him — something shifts in the air, just like it has every single time.

When she arches her eyebrow, he finally knows to expect… and this time, the initiative is all his. Harry bends down to brush his lips against hers, and Ginny responds in kind, slipping her fingers into his hair and bringing his head even closer. Kissing Ginny fills him with sunshine and brightness, and even though Harry knows he can’t keep the growing storm at bay forever, he also knows (more clearly than ever) that they need each other to ride it out.

Ginny pulls back after a few moments, her arms still draped around his neck, and Harry just stares down at her and swallows.

He idly wonders (yet again) how the hell he would have gotten through this if they’d stayed broken up. She’s his fire. She’s his light. She’s his life.

And whatever’s coming will come... and when it does, they’ll face it. _Together._


End file.
